A Passionate Magic (9 page)

“I will remember that in the future. I’ve
been gathering plants.”

“So I see.” He spared only a quick glance for
the wilted greenery in her basket. He couldn’t imagine what she
thought she was going to do with the sandy things, but if they kept
her occupied in the stillroom, so she had no time to meddle in the
running of Penruan, then let her drag in all the plants she wanted
and let her stay in the stillroom all the time.

Dain had no intention of permitting himself
to become a judge in a domestic struggle between his wife and his
mother. He did not doubt for a moment that there would be war when
Lady Richenda returned from visiting her sister. She had made her
opinion of Dain’s marriage, and of his submission to King Henry’s
will, very clear before her departure to the convent at Tawton
where her sister was the abbess.

However placid and gentle Emma’s disposition
might prove to be, and from the way she had faced him down on
several occasions, he doubted she would ever run from a quarrel,
his mother was not going to accept the presence of another lady of
rank at Penruan. Life was going to be easier for Emma, and for him,
if she stayed away from his mother. Thus, his willingness to allow
Emma free rein in the stillroom, where he hoped she would occupy
most of her hours.

She bestowed a trembling smile on him, and
again Dain was aware of a tightening in his chest, and of a harder,
more urgent tightening in his lower body.

Perhaps he ought to take his wife to bed at
once, and fill her belly with his seed before his mother came home.
Surely even Lady Richenda’s pride would bend enough to accept the
woman who bore in her womb the next heir to Penman.

No! He could not bed Emma. He did not want
this cursed marriage that had been inflicted on him, and he was
determined to leave open the possibility of having it annulled for
lack of consummation.

With a smothered oath he turned away from
Emma and started back toward Penruan.

”Dain, wait a moment,” she called after
him.

“Why?” He halted, not looking at her.

“Did you see anyone on the cliff before I
appeared?” she asked.

“No,” he responded sharply. Then, thinking it
an odd question for her to ask and wondering if she had seen
something that could pose a danger to Penruan, he added, “I arrived
home just a short time ago. Sloan did not mention the sentries
noticing anything out of the ordinary. It was he who told me you
were on the beach.”

And like a love-smitten page running after
the girl who had enchanted his heart, Dain had left his men-at-arms
and squires, ignoring Sloan’s attempts to make a full report of all
that had occurred while he was gone, and had run to the top of the
cliff path to meet Emma. It was not like him to make such a foolish
gesture.

”You rode directly here from Trevanan?” Emma
asked.

“I did.” He could not continue to speak to
her when his back was turned, so he faced her again. He was glad to
see she had moved away from the edge of the cliff. The
late-afternoon sun shone full on her face, making her skin glow as
if it was translucent. The wind lifted the sides of her simple
white linen head scarf, allowing him to see the thick black braid
of her hair.

His fingers itched to tear off the scarf, to
pull out the hairpins and untwist the braid, letting the smooth
length of her hair flow through his hands. He remembered with
painful clarity how Emma’s hair felt, how clean it smelled. He
longed to take her face between his hands, to feel again the
softness of her cheek against his callused fingers. He ached to
press his mouth over her rose-petal lips. At the mere thought of
touching Emma, of holding her in his arms, his body surged into
eager readiness.

Sweet saints in heaven! What was wrong with
him? After his first, youthful foray into lust, and his recognition
of how easily untrammeled masculine passion could create a new
life, he had never again found it difficult to restrain his bodily
desires. He ought not to find it difficult now. She was, after all,
his enemy’s daughter. He was not – definitely not! – going to bed
her.

“What is it you want to know, Emma?” he
asked, rather more sharply than he intended.

“If you rode straight from Trevanan, you must
have had a full view of the cliffs all along your way,” she
said.

“So I did. And all along the way I saw no
one. That is what you asked, is it not?” He frowned at her because,
after first looking nervously in the direction of Trevanan, she was
now staring straight into his eyes, and it was all he could do to
keep his hands at his sides.

“While I was on the beach, I thought I saw a
figure dressed in white standing at the edge of the cliff,” she
said.

“Ah,” said Dain, understanding. “You’ve seen
the lady.”

“Blake told me that you have seen her,
too.”

“Blake talks much too freely.”

“Does she live in the cave just below?”

“So you’ve been exploring Merlin’s cave, have
you?” Of course she had; she was too intelligent not to be curious
about her surroundings. Well, let her prowl along the beaches and
poke into caves and bring home all the half-dead plants she wanted.
He and Sloan and even young Blake could easily keep her under
surveillance, to see that she came to no harm. And if she was
caught out in a misdemeanor during her wanderings, he would have a
perfect excuse to send her back to Wroxley, untouched, unbedded,
still a virgin....

“Are you speaking of the great wizard?” she
asked in a hushed voice.

“The legend says Merlin lies enchanted in one
of the caves below these cliffs,” Dain told her, aware that the
ending of Merlin’s story presented a lesson that he, wed to a lady
he dared not trust, ought to take to heart. He started walking
toward Penruan and Emma went with him. From the expression on her
beautiful face, she was entranced by the mention of King Arthur’s
friend and teacher.

“Even the greatest wizard of all was not
immune to the blandishments of a lovely female,” Dain continued.
“His treacherous mistress, Nimue, lured him to a cave and,
according to the tale, there she wove an enchantment that
supposedly holds great Merlin entombed to this day. In fact, the
local folk believe the ruins of Camelot are buried somewhere on the
moor. It has even been claimed that a new castle being built
farther east along the coast is laid out on the very site of
Arthur’s birthplace. I do not believe that last story.”

“Do you believe the other tales?” Emma
asked.

“I do not know whether the stories are true
or not. Nor, I fear, does anyone else know for certain, and I doubt
if anyone will ever prove where Arthur built his castle.”

“What of the lady in white? You admit you’ve
seen her.”

“She appears and disappears,” he said.
“Sometimes she is not seen for months, or even years. She must be a
creature of magic, to come and go so mysteriously. It’s my opinion
that it is always best to avoid magic. Too much of it is evil.” He
rubbed his forehead, aware of the faint, unpleasant ache that
always accompanied sight or mention of the ghostly lady. After a
moment the ache disappeared.

Emma looked as if she wanted to say
something, but she shook her head and remained silent. For the rest
of the walk back to the castle she was so quiet that Dain wondered
if she feared the possibility of magic, or if it was just the
vision of the lady in white that had frightened her.

They reached the deep moat that was cut
through the solid rock of the headland. Originally, the moat had
been a natural ravine created by the river. The chasm had been made
wider and deeper by successive lords of Penruan until the castle
was almost completely inaccessible to invasion. The moat was so
deep that the drawbridge had a railing to prevent falls.

Dain watched as Emma paused to look over the
railing at the jagged black rocks along the sides of the ravine.
When she resumed walking her step was firm and steady. Plainly, she
was not afraid of heights. She was going to make a brave,
resourceful, and beautiful lady for his castle.

Dain was so startled by the direction of his
thoughts that he halted in the middle of the drawbridge to stare at
his wife’s slender back. His gaze moved lower and he took
considerable pleasure in the sight of her shapely calves beneath
the skirt that was still kilted high. In that moment Dain was glad
she could not read his mind, and gladder still to know his tunic
reached to mid-thigh.

The bottom of Emma’s skirt was so wet that
she dripped as she walked, and her boots left a trail of damp
footprints in her wake. Wet or dry, she moved with graceful
dignity, and it was delightful to watch her. She did not seem to
notice that Dain was no longer at her side. Perhaps she had her own
secret thoughts. That was a distinctly unpleasant idea, for Emma’s
secret thoughts might well be treacherous. With a frown clouding
his brow, Dain followed his wife into the shadows of the
gatehouse.

Later that evening Dain sat at the high table
with Emma by his side. She wore fresh clothes: deep russet-brown
wool for her gown, a simple gold mesh net over the thick, pinned-up
braid of her hair, and a gold necklace set with amethysts, stones
as darkly purple as the flecks of color in her brown eyes.

It was all Dain could do to keep his hands
from her. Having decided that he definitely would not bed her, and
having sternly lectured himself over his desire for her during the
hour when he was supposedly listening with full attention to
Sloan’s report covering the days of his absence from Penruan, Dain
had succeeded in convincing himself that he was immune to Emma’s
beauty, as well as to the more subtle allures offered by her
low-pitched, musical voice and her intelligence.

After Sloan finished his report, Dain visited
the castle bathhouse to wash and to be shaved by the barber. Then
he changed into a sober dark brown tunic that he felt emphasized
his new determination to keep a cool but polite distance from
Emma.

He had entered the great hall looking forward
to the evening meal which, in celebration of his return, was to be
embellished beyond the usual cold meats and cheese, bread, and ale
that were its everyday ingredients. Cook had made a pigeon pie, and
there was to be a salad composed in part of herbs gathered by Emma
during her most recent excursion to the moor. The sweet was to be a
custard served with the first plums of the season stewed with
cinnamon and cloves.

Dain noted with pleasure the clean white
cloth on the high table, the wooden trenchers, one for every two
people, and his own silver drinking cup waiting for him at his
place. He saw that the candles were already lit in the twin
candelabra on the high table. All was as it should be, all prepared
for the lord of Penruan.

And then Emma came down the curving stone
staircase from the tower and into the circle of candlelight, a
radiant vision of ripe autumn shades, of russet and gold and
purple, and Dain experienced again that peculiar twisting in his
chest, as if a dainty hand was locking itself firmly around his
heart.

In his struggle against unwilling admiration
of her lovely person, and against the tightness that would not
release itself from his chest, he resorted to a coldness toward her
that was almost rude.

“Where did you acquire such a necklace?” he
demanded, frowning at the gold and amethyst splendor that caressed
her throat. The neckline of her gown was demurely high and round,
with no embroidery, the better to show off the fine workmanship of
the necklace – and the smooth ivory column of her throat. Dain
shook with the sudden desire to place his lips upon a tiny mole
just below her left ear, a slight imperfection that only enhanced
her beauty.

“It is a wedding gift from my father,” she
said. Her fingertips lightly stroked the largest purple stone, the
one that hung just above the beginning of the soft swell of her
breasts.

”A king’s ransom of a gift,” Dain responded.
He did not say what both of them knew, that according to the law
the necklace rightly belonged to him, just as Emma did, just as all
of her belongings were now his, because she was his wife.
His
wife
... to take to his bed, to possess in the most intimate of
ways...

“It was a gift of love,” she said. “My father
loves me well.”

Dain was shamed by the tender smile playing
along her lips and by the warm look in her eyes when she spoke of
Gavin. She did love her father; he could not question the honesty
of her emotion. Nor did he doubt her claim that Gavin loved her.
Yet she had left her loving family to come voluntarily to Penruan,
to be wife to a man who was sworn never to love her, never to
believe in her honesty, or in her father’s.

Suddenly Dain’s angry feud against the baron
of Wroxley and his plan to reject Emma as part of his revenge
against Gavin seemed but tawdry schemes. They felt like the
workings of an unquiet mind that counted wounds received in open
warfare and the loss of a small tract of land more important than
the heart of a virtuous young woman. Never mind that the initial
impulse to reopen the feud was not his own. He had been all too
willing to heed the arguments that claimed revenge was his duty. He
had accepted the responsibility and he could not lay it aside. The
feud was his now.

And so Dain sat beside his wife at the high
table, barely nibbling at the pigeon pie that he usually relished,
scarcely tasting the spiced plum sauce over rich custard that was
one of his favorite treats. He drank a little too much and warned
himself to keep away from Emma.

“Will you return to Trevanan soon?” she asked
him.

“Yes.” Dain made a hasty decision. “I intend
to return tomorrow morning. The men who are rebuilding the houses
ruined by the brigands will work faster and better if I am there to
oversee their efforts.” They would work just as well for the
overseer Dain had left at Trevanan, but if he did not return there,
if he remained at Penruan, he would have to see Emma several times
a day, speak with her, sit beside her at the high table during the
midday and evening meals. Every night he’d have to fight anew the
battle with himself to stay out of the big bed in the lord’s
chamber.